"I think—" she began, speaking with her back still turned to me. "Well?" said I. "—that you have—" "Yes?" said I. "—very unpleasant—eyes!" "I am very sorry for that," said I, dropping the weapon out of sight behind my row of books, having done which, I drew both chairs nearer the fire, and invited her to sit down. "Thank you, I prefer to stand," said she loftily. "As you will," I answered, but, even while I spoke, she seemed to change her mind, for she sank into the nearest chair, and, chin in hand, stared into the fire. "And so," said she, as I sat down opposite her, "and so your name is Peter Smith, and you are a blacksmith?" "Yes, a blacksmith." "And make horseshoes?" "Naturally, yes." "And do you live here?" "Yes." "Alone?" "Quite alone!" "And how long have you lived here alone?" "Not so long that I am tired of it." "And is this cottage yours?" "Yes—that is, it stands on the Sefton estates, I believe, but nobody hereabouts would seem anxious to dispute my right of occupying the place." "Why not?" "Because it is generally supposed to be haunted." "Oh!" "It was built by some wanderer of the roads," I explained, "a stranger to these parts, who lived alone here, and eventually died alone here." "Died here?" "Hanged himself on the staple above the door, yonder." "Oh!" said she again, and cast a fearful glance towards the deep-driven, rusty staple. "The country folk believe his spirit still haunts the place," I went on, "and seldom, or never, venture foot within the Hollow." "And are you not afraid of this ghost?" "No," said I. "It must be very lonely here." "Delightfully so." "Are you so fond of solitude?" "Yes, for solitude is thought, and to think is to live." "And what did you do with the—pistol?" "I dropped it out of sight behind my books yonder." "I wonder why I gave it to you." "Because, if you remember, I asked you for it." "But I usually dislike doing what I am asked, and your manner was—scarcely courteous." "You also objected to my eyes, I think?" "Yes," she nodded. "Hum!" said I. The dark night, outside, was filled with malignant demons now, who tore at the rattling casements, who roared and bellowed down the chimney, or screamed furiously round the cottage; but here, in the warm firelight, I heeded them not at all, watching, rather, this woman, where she sat, leaned forward, gazing deep into the glow. And where the light touched her hair it woke strange fires, red and bronze. And it was very rebellious hair, with little tendrils that gleamed, here and there, against her temples, and small, defiant curls that seemed to strive to hide behind her ear, or, bold and wanton, to kiss her snowy neck—out of sheer bravado.